The Prime of Mrs Jean Innocent
by Lady Kes
Summary: An ordinary day in the life of Jean Innocent still includes pearls, painters, and potentially psychic PAs. Not Series 7 compliant.


The alarm, as usual, went off entirely too early. It nearly always did these days, but Jean leaned over and turned it off anyway. Warm arms wrapped around her and a sleepy voice spoke into her neck, making her shiver with ticklishness.

"Good morning, Mrs. Innocent."

"Good morning, Mr. Innocent."

It'd started as a joke, a newlywed's pride at being able to say the words, but it had turned into a permanent nickname, not just for each other but for the rest of the world. Jean liked it because it allowed her to maintain a separation between her work and her personal life. Her husband liked it because he was still, after twenty-odd years, utterly amazed that beautiful, smart, ambitious Jean had chosen to marry him.

"I've got to get up. There's the meeting with the PCC today," she reminded her adorably sleepy spouse.

"You didn't come to bed till after midnight," he protested on her behalf, and pointedly didn't move his arms.

"I know, but the assessments had to be done," she reminded him, and he sighed and released her. He worked second shift security at the Mini factory and nearly always stayed in bed after she got up, which made it even more difficult to leave the warm bed, but the PCC did not like to be kept waiting.

She got ready efficiently, choosing her outfit to set the proper tone. Today it was professional with an extra bit of femininity. The PCC responded better to pearls, which always made her roll her eyes, but she hadn't got where she was without knowing when to indulge the relatively harmless foibles of her nearly always male superiors.

She'd gone into police work to try to make a difference even though it wasn't really considered a normal career for a woman when she'd started. It still wasn't in many ways and it had been hard, especially in the beginning. Often she'd had to be better than her male colleagues just to be considered as good as they were, and she knew her personal life had suffered. Still, her marriage had survived and Chris hadn't been too scarred by the experience, though he had chosen to become a copper, so perhaps he was a bit scarred after all.

* * *

The trip through the station in the morning was always entertaining. The personnel on the night shift were sleepily leaving while the personnel on the day shift were sleepily arriving. DC Jacobs had an absolutely enormous mug of coffee on her desk and Gurdip's hair was sticking up all over his head. He'd probably slept in his office again and she made a mental note to remind him not to work so much overtime. He'd think it was for budgetary reasons and she'd let him.

Her terrifyingly efficient assistant had made coffee, sorted the paperwork into three categories (what needed to be dealt with, what needed to be ignored, and what needed to be set to the side for later developments), and even prepared a precis of the previous day's incidents even though Jean knew she'd only been at her desk for half an hour. She made a mental note to make sure that Louisa received the highest possible pay rise in this year's assessment. There were at least five Chief Supers currently coveting her assistant, and the last thing Jean needed was for her to go elsewhere.

"Louisa," she called, and the paragon in question came into the office.

"Ma'am?" she asked respectfully.

"Do you know if Lewis has arrived yet?" Robbie had been working on something tricky and high profile yet again, which meant she needed to remind him of a few things. He was one of her best coppers, but he'd never learned to deal with the politics of Oxford. Actually, she suspected he'd deliberately learned how not to deal with them, likely from Morse. Generally it worked out for him because he just pushed through the politics to get to the answers, but it did mean that she heard more than a few complaints from those he pushed.

"No, ma'am. He hasn't. And neither has Hathaway," Louisa answered without even having to go check. How she knew, Jean would never understand, but she always did. Perhaps she'd taken up telepathy. It was an admirable quality in an assistant.

"Thank you. If they do arrive before my meeting with the PCC, would you let them know that I'd like to see them?"

Louisa nodded and left, and Jean settled into her morning review of just what the good citizens of Oxford had been up to and from there what her coppers had been doing about it.

* * *

The meeting with the PCC had gone as she expected. He'd made all the right noises, she'd made all the right noises, and she was fairly certain her budgets would not be cut any more than was absolutely required. It would still be too much, but she could work with it. Working it all out could and would keep her up at night since she was a copper first and an administrator second, but Mr. Innocent was always on hand at those times, ready with HobNobs and tea.

After she'd shown the PCC into his car, she stopped to confirm with the desk sergeant that his mum was still gravely ill and that he might well need to take some leave time. Inspector Larsen had already begun reworking the rota in anticipation of this event, but it wouldn't hurt to gently encourage him to have it done sooner rather than later, from the sounds of things.

"Louisa, can you ask Inspector Larsen to come by my office for a few minutes?" she asked and before Louisa nodded, "And have you seen Lewis?"

"Yes, ma'am, he and Hathaway are interviewing a suspect now."

"It isn't the vice chancellor, is it?" she asked apprehensively.

"No, ma'am, I believe it's a house painter," Louisa replied, which meant Lewis had once more found a connection no one else would have, since a house painter hadn't even been a suspect yesterday as far as she'd been aware.

"House painter?" she repeated. "This should be interesting. I'll be in Observation 1."

"Yes, ma'am," Louisa acknowledged, and Jean stepped out of the office and down the hall, smiling and greeting her officers and staff as she did. She didn't need to watch over Lewis, of course, but she wanted to walk around and remember what real policing was after a morning of politics.

She slipped into the observation room and glanced up at Hathaway, who was staring into the interview room. They'd apparently decided not to do the good copper, bad copper routine for this interrogation, which was a shame. She really enjoyed watching that, especially when they swapped roles in the middle with just a glance between them to cue it. Not many of her teams worked quite so well together, though all of them got along enough that she didn't have to do too much personnel-shuffling in any given year.

"Ma'am," Hathaway greeted her minimally.

"House painter?" she queried, and he nodded.

"Dr. Hobson found traces of latex under the victim's fingernails and the analysis showed it was paint. Specifically, the type of paint being used to redo the conservatory. From there, we realized it was the house painter," he supplied succinctly, still watching the interview. She never quite knew what to make of this particular sergeant. Intelligent, obviously, and a very good detective, one of her best, but she didn't at all understand what really went on in his head. Probably no one did except Lewis and she considered yet again that she was going to have a real challenge matching Hathaway with someone else when Lewis retired. That was assuming Hathaway wanted to be matched with anyone else, of course, which she still wasn't sure of. Fortunately, she didn't have to make that decision today.

In the room, Lewis was very carefully dismantling an alibi, and Hathaway half-smiled when the house painter dropped his head in apparent surrender and began confessing. Jean smiled as well. CPS would still have their job to do, but this end of it was done, and done as well as always so far as she could tell.

"Good result. Tell him I said so, Sergeant," she ordered nicely, and turned to go while Hathaway was acknowledging that.

When she returned to her office, Louisa held up a small sheaf of messages that had built up. She nearly groaned but knew that however many there were, Louisa had parried or outright ignored many more.

"Thank you, Louisa," she said, and took the messages, sorting through them as she walked to her office and sat down. The rest of the day would be spent with paperwork, returning calls, meetings with her coppers, and a trip out of the office for lunch and an eclair.

* * *

A high-profile kidnapping occurred just as she'd been planning to go home. She'd had her bag all packed, even. Sod's Law was nearly foolproof when it came to that. Louisa arranged for a car and Jean went to the scene with no more than a sigh for her delayed and possibly entirely missed meal. With this kind of crime, there was most certainly going to be a press conference, so it was just as well that she'd chosen the pearls today.

DI Keith was in charge of the scene and nearly saluted when she saw Jean, which Jean discreetly ignored. Minerva (or Minnie, as nearly everyone called her) was young for an inspector and prone to that kind of thing. She'd mature out of it.

"Any updates in the last thirty minutes, Inspector?" Jean asked briskly, and DI Keith shook her head.

"No ma'am. Still no ransom request, but we've got all the phones tapped in case one comes in. I've got all the specifics here for you to provide to the press," Keith said, handing over a piece of paper, which Jean scanned quickly. There wasn't much to say, so she'd do the usual speech. It was awful that there was a usual speech, of course, but extemporizing at a crime scene turned out poorly for all but the press.

She cleared her throat and stepped up to the microphone. "Good evening," she began, and the press quieted down amazingly quickly. At the end, there was a clamor for more information, more opinions, more everything, and she held up a hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be happy to provide information as we have it. For now, we assure the public and the victim's family that we are devoting all possible resources to finding Miss Shore. We urge the kidnapper or kidnappers to release her. There will be another press conference tomorrow or sooner if the situation warrants it."

With that, she stepped back, signalling very firmly that the conference was at an end, and ignored the ones who shouted "just one last question" as she went back to her officers. DI Keith seemed very relieved that she hadn't had to do more than stand there and look solemn.

"I'll be at the station," she informed Keith. "Keep me informed."

"Ma'am," Keith acknowledged, and Jean got back into the car. It would be a late night for her, but a later night for her officers. She'd never been good at not working when her officers might need her. Mr. Innocent had chided her for it, but she couldn't change the habit. That reminded her to text him so he wouldn't hold dinner on his day off.

_Kidnapping. May not be home tonight._

_Will put a plate in the fridge. Love you, Mrs. I._

_Love you too, Mr. I._

Back at the station, she noticed gratefully that Louisa prepared another pot of coffee before she'd left. The station coffee was truly horrid and Jean refused to drink it, even out of solidarity with her officers. She settled down with her coffee and more paperwork, ready to call, chivvy, or gently browbeat whatever officials might need calling, chivvying or browbeating so that her officers could do their jobs.

At eight, there was a ransom demand, immediately tracked to a public phone, which told Jean that the kidnappers hadn't at all thought this through. DC Lockhart was developing a real talent for spotting digital needles in haystacks, so she was given the task of examining the CCTV from around the phone box.

At nine, Julie was nearly certain she'd got a description and the family was authorized to seem to respond to the demand and set up a ransom drop. Plainclothes officers would be stationed in and around the area, of course.

At ten, the drop occurred and the kidnapper appeared. Her officers immediately took him into custody, of course, and hustled him back to the station to discuss the whereabouts of the victim.

At eleven, the suspect finally stopped prevaricating and admitted where he'd left Miss Shore. Fortunately, she was still there, still alive, and was happily reunited with her family. There was the paperwork to do, of course, but that could wait till the morning. The important bit was over and all her officers could go home. So could she.

At midnight, she collapsed into bed, snuggling into the sleepy arms of her spouse. It had been a good day, all things considered. She'd done well for her officers and her officers had done well for the citizens of Oxford.

"Good night, Mr. Innocent," she murmured.

"Good night, Mrs. Innocent," he replied, and Jean dropped off, content with the day behind and ready for the day ahead.


End file.
